Making History
by electroniccollectiondonut
Summary: In attempting to remedy an unwanted death, the Lords and Ladies of the Valar end up with rather more of a mess than they're prepared to deal with. The subjects of this tremendous disaster don't have the luxury of time to sort things out, so they take matters into their own hands. Fortunately, they're both rather good at throwing Eru's plans back in his face when it suits them.
1. Prologue

Kanafinwё Makalaurё was dying. Most of the Valar found this absolutely unacceptable. In fact, all but Ulmo were resolved not to let death befall him.

He slept brokenly in the Healing Halls at Imladris, the city's lord tending him with pursed lips and buried panic. Fever had near claimed him ere dawn that morning, but by some miracle, he still drew breath. Elrond Peredhil sent up a prayer to all the Valar and settled in for another fearful night at his foster father's bedside.

He'd scarcely finished any work that day, too preoccupied with worry for the ancient elf barely clinging to life in a bed three floors down. Finally, Erestor and Glorfindel had walked in, taken the stack of paperwork from his desk, and shoved him toward the door.

Now he sat in a hard chair for the third night in a row, a too-familiar worry nagging at him. The same worry he'd felt before the Battle of Dagorlad and—and before Sirion, Eregion, Numenor, so many others… He took a shaky breath and resigned himself to the fact that his Adar wasn't going to last the night. And if Námo wished to claim Maglor Fёanorion, Elrond would be at his side until the last, and pick up the pieces after.

A furious gesture stirred storms on the sea far below. "We are not meant to do this!" Ulmo cried.

His protests went unacknowledged save by Vairё.

"We _are_ doing this, with or without your help," she said, her thousand eyes unblinking. The aqueous Vala was shocked that even the usually placid Vairё was so determined to go against Eru's plan. He knew she was trying to convince him to join in with their treason, but he would not. The last time a Vala went against Eru… No. Ulmo would not help them. Not even if he could hear the Peredhil's desperate, panicked prayer… Guilt started to creep in, but he turned away from where the other Valar were working their magic.

It was Nienna's shout that told him something had gone wrong. Ulmo whirled to face her and the others, no longer worried about what Eru would think. He stepped in without thinking, following Varda's lead. He didn't know exactly what they'd been doing at first, but now it seemed like a half-desperate attempt to keep the subjects of their spell—because there were apparently two of them now—from dying horribly.

When the urgency had passed, they all gathered to see what they had wrought, and they stood aghast when they saw something that should not be.

Ulmo glared at the others, not quiteknowing what to say but needing to say something. Finally, he decided on a rebuke. "I knew you shouldn't have tried anything so drastic. _I told you not to do this!_ And you did it anyway, and it went wrong, and now look what's happened." He gestured sharply with each sentence, stirring up his ocean further until the skies had gone dark.

Something should be done. Something _must_ be done. But this mistake couldn't be fixed by anyone save Eru himself.


	2. Chapter One

Maglor's visit to Imladris a fortnight before Elrond's departure to the West was not entirely unexpected. What was surprising was the fact that the Noldo stumbled through the gates half-conscious and covered in blood just two weeks before Elrond was due to sail. The inhabitants of Imladris were already moving at a fever pitch preparing for a new lord; Maglor's dramatic arrival could only serve to cause more confusion.

He knew this. However, he also knew that Imladris was the only city that would take his arrival in stride even during a time of such stress. That, and he was fairly certain he would end up dead in the wilderness somewhere if he tried to go much further.

When Maglor had chosen to go to Imladris, he had expected it to solve his problems. His current one, at the very least. He hadn't expected it to become the source of a hundred more. He should have known better, he thought bitterly. When did anything ever go right for the Sons of Fёanor?

* * *

The last thing he remembered was being drastically outnumbered by orcs and his subsequent flight to Imladris. Now he was kneeling in the leaves in a forest he hadn't visited in six thousand years, a teary-eyed, slightly bloodied Elfling cradled to his chest.

* * *

Maglor_ had come to slowly and painfully. And, much to his own anxiety, definitely not in _Imladris_. _He was dressed_ in a thin nightshirt, not nearly enough for someone wandering the forest in the dimming twilight. The first thing he noticed, and arguably the least important given the situation, was that he could hear a whip-poor-will _starting_ to sing somewhere above him. The most important, which took him a few moments, was that there was an Elfling curled up at his feet, asleep in a pile of lavish silks and velvets. Said Elfling was far too familiar for comfort, but _Maglor_ couldn't read too far into that at the moment or he might panic._

_He shook the Elfling awake, careful of the blood drying on the tiny arm. He wasn't sure where the child _was wounded_ or how badly, but he was shivering on the ground, and _Maglor was suddenly reminded_ of the first time he had seen this Elfling, clinging to his twin brother in terrified silence during the aftermath of the _kinslaying_ at _Sirion_._

* * *

He gathered the waking child to his chest, bouncing and rocking him as best he could while still sitting. His breath was measured, his voice soft and even as he tried to soothe the Elfling, but he was shaking to badly to stand up. He wasn't supposed to be here anymore; the Elfling had never been here to begin with.

It was far too real to be a nightmare. He could feel the wetness from the forest floor on his bare legs, the warm blood dripping slowly over his fingers from the cut on the Elfling's upper arm. And… Maglor knew what hallucinations felt like. This was too complete, too clear, to be anything but real. And if it was real, then the first order of business had to be wrapping the Elfling's arm. He could handle that.

The child appeared to be about nine years old, so perhaps twenty-five by an Elvish reckoning. He was dwarfed by the heavy robes he had been wearing the last time Maglor had seen him—when he was still a fully grown ellon. No, he wasn't going to think about that. If he did, he was sure he'd lose it, and the Elfling needed him.

He had to start using the boy's name eventually, he supposed, tearing one of the thinner pieces of fabric into strips to bind the wound.

"Elrond," he breathed, jostling the child to get his attention.

The little one looked up at him, eyes wide and wet. "Hurts," he managed between sobs.

"I know. I know, I'll find us some help in the morning, alright?"

Elrond nodded, trusting Maglor to keep to his word. Maglor thought he felt his heart break just a bit when he remembered that he'd only known Elrond for three years at this point in the boy's first time around, it had taken much longer to gain his trust, and Maglor found himself worrying about the extent of the child's injuries.

He bandaged the cut as best he could with what he had and bundled the Elfling in the remaining fabric to keep him warm while he slept. There wasn't much he could do by way of a fire, but the night was dry and windless. He was more worried about their lack of supplies than the elements; if they were where he thought, Yavanna governed the weather. She wouldn't allow an Elfling to die if she could stop it. But there was no Valar who could ensure food or medical supplies.

When morning came, he would start walking. Six thousand years was too long for him to remember which way was home, but he knew these woods were kept by the House of Finwё, so someone was bound to discover them eventually.

He didn't know how well he would handle coming face-to-face with people he hadn't spoken with outside his nightmares for six millenia. He wondered when, from their point of view, they'd last seen him. Had it been a day? A year? A hundred? And how would they react to Elrond?

He stopped himself there. He didn't even know how far back he'd gone. Perhaps his kin had already left Aman and gone to retrieve the Silmarils from Beleriand. Or perhaps he hadn't gone back at all, though he couldn't imagine why Elrond was suddenly nine years old if it was still the beginning of the Fourth Age.

Elrond shifted in his sleep, beaded fabric scraping against Maglor's left palm. The ellon gasped sharply, pain radiating up his arm. He examined the never-quite-healed burn mark in by the dim light that seemed to pervade the land. Well, at least he had an idea of what time period he was in, then, if Telperion still shone. The not-scar looked the same as it had for centuries, but it felt as it had just after he had cast his Silmaril to the sea, tender and burning.

He made quick work of wrapping it in one of the strips of fabric he'd left laying on the ground. He knew it likely wouldn't help, but it was the sentiment that mattered. He settled down with Elrond in his lap, back against a nearby tree, and let himself drift into the realm of Irmo.


	3. Chapter Two

When Maglor woke, it was to laughing voices somewhere in the distance. Normally, he would prepare for a fight. However, he could hardly call his current situation normal. He was unarmed and caring for a child in a forest that, while it technically belonged at least partially to him, was almost entirely unfamiliar. He gathered the still sleeping Elrond to his chest, trying not to lose his head at the fact that the once Lord of Imladris was emnine years old,/em and started walking in the opposite direction of the voices.

It wasn't long before the Elfling woke and demanded to walk on his own. Maglor placed him on the ground and tied off the bottom of the too-long robe, placing a finger to his lips for silence. Elrond nodded dutifully and they continued walking.

He kept his ears trained on the voices. There were three or more, speaking in Noldorin Quenya and getting closer. He shoved down the momentary panic and placed a hand on the Elfling's back, weaving him through the trees and away from the voices. Elrond looked up at him anxiously and ended up stumbling over something on the ground.

The voices went abruptly silent as Maglor picked Elrond off the ground. There was a soft rustling of leaves and one of the voices spoke up, tone worried and scolding. Maglor would have spared a moment of thought to translate it from Quenya, but he was frozen in place at the name the speaker had started with: Tyelpe. That meant that, whatever time he'd come back to, Celebrimbor was already born and old enough to go on a hunt. Which meant in turn that there couldn't be long before Fёanor started work on the Silmarils, if he hadn't already. And what a grim thought that was, that he might be sent back with a young Elrond and be unable to protect him from all that the Silmarils had initially caused.

There was another round of rustling and Maglor was drawn from his reverie. He directed Elrond behind a tree just to the side, where he would be out of sight to whoever was coming but also, more importantly, where Maglor could keep an eye on him and protect him if something went wrong. The Elfling wore a frightened expression, watching Maglor with wide eyes that were no less sharp for fear.

Maglor turned to face the patch of bushes that rustled softly with the person's approach. He was entirely unprepared for a fight, unarmed and dressed in only a nightshirt, not to mention the sharp, unignorable ache that had settled in his left arm during the night. A fight suddenly became the least of his concerns, however, when an ellon with bright golden hair stepped in to view, bow fully drawn and arrow trained firmly on Maglor. But he didn't fire, eyes widening almost comically and mouth dropping open in shock.

For his part, Maglor wasn't faring much better. He was standing face-to-face with one of his younger brothers, whose funeral he'd attended so many millennia ago. How many times had he wished to see him again, staying up well into the morning pleading with the Valar to take him or give his brothers back, and now he stood dumbstruck when given the chance he'd begged for for so long.

"Tyelkormo?" called the voice from before. Curufin, a calmer, more rational part of Maglor's mind supplied. He could feel his heart racing as Celegorm struggled for a reply, bow not straying from its intended target even as his voice trembled.

"I think you need to come here, Curufinwё," he said finally, voice stronger than he'd probably expected. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Bring Tyelpe."

Maglor's breath caught and he whipped his head around to watch for his brother and nephew to appear. He didn't have to wait long. Curufin approached cautiously, arm out to keep Celebrimbor behind him as the Elfling peeked around to see what was happening. He stopped dead as soon as he was close enough to see Maglor, expression mirroring Celegorm's. Celebrimbor, watching from just behind his father, gaped.

"Uncle?" the boy asked disbelievingly.

Maglor was beginning to feel somewhat hysterical, though he imagined he was entitled given that all three of the people he was looking at right now were long since dead. He flicked a glance to Elrond and the Elfling moved tentatively into view, clutching Maglor's left hand tightly in the face of a new group of people.

Two things happened at once then. Celegorm's hand slackened and the arrow flew, and the combination of shock and pain finally got to Maglor, dropping him to the ground in a dead faint. The timing was rather excellent, for the arrow just grazed Maglor, passing over Elrond's head as the Elfling knelt in worry.

And everything erupted into chaos.


	4. Chapter Three

Telperinquar watched the events immediately following his uncle's collapse in silent, wide-eyed shock.

Uncle Tyelkormo dropped his bow, grabbing for Uncle Makalaurё as he fell but missing. Atar hit his knees hard in his haste to be sure Uncle Makalaurё was alright, but the strange Elfling shoved his hands away, the Elfling's own hands fluttering over Uncle Makalaurё's chest in a panic, wanting to do something but clearly not knowing what.

Atar, after being shoved away twice more and when the unfamiliar Elfling started to tear up, grabbed the child and carried him a few steps away, allowing Uncle Tyelkormo to check over their older brother. The Elfling screamed in a language none of them recognised, pulling at Atar's hair and kicking at his legs.

Telperinquar jumped forward then, torn from his shock by the younger boy's shrieking. He secured the Elfling's arms to his sides until the little one stopped fighting some, careful of where the right one was tied in makeshift bandages, then held him in place while Atar and Uncle Tyelkormo checked over Uncle Makalaurё.

The Elfling was tiny and strange looking, Telperinquar thought as he examined the child. If Uncle Makalaurë was the father, it didn't show. The child was darker of skin and lighter of hair and very ambiguous of face. While he looked like a regular Elfling overall, there was something distinctly non-elfin about him. He was younger than Telperinquar, but not by too much; the new child looked perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six years old to his thirty-three.

What concerned Telperinuar rather a bit more than the boy's age, however, was that he was starting to cry. He babbled softly in his odd language, similar enough to Quenya that a few words were recognizable, but Telperinquar was sure that Indatar Fёanáro would have a fit if he heard it. One word in particular stuck out to him, one that the boy repeated over and over in between the others: "Ada". It sounded similar enough to Atar, and there was only one person in the area the Elfling could reasonably be referring to: Uncle Makalaurё.

The walk back to Fёanáro's home was quiet. The Elfling, as yet unnamed, clung to Telperinquar, adamantly resisting all of Tyelkormo's attempts to take him. The third son of Fёanáro had taken one look at the boy's bare feet and decided that he must be carried. The Elfling was staunchly opposed to this idea, crossing his arms and glaring up at Tyelkormo and proving that "no" was a fairly universal term.

Telperinquar, for his part, made a valiant effort at carrying the boy. He took all of the child's squirming and wailing rather well, but eventually gave in and put the Elfling on the ground, holding the child's hand as he walked. The younger boy was panicky, but cooperative so long as Makalaurё remained within his sight.

He chattered softly in his strange language, but it seemed more to fill the silence than anything. Occasionally, Tyelpe would hear a word that he knew, but not often enough to know what the boy was talking about. By the time they were nearly there, he had gone utterly silent, half running to keep up with Curufinwё's long strides. Tyelpe scooped him up then. He was little more than a head taller than the boy, but his legs were long enough to keep up with his father. The Elfling protested at first, but settled as soon as he realized why Telperinquar had picked him up.

* * *

Of all the things Fёanáro had expected when he suggested that Tyelkormo and Curufinwё take Telperinquar out hunting that morning—injuries, disasters, even divine intervention—for them to return with a strange new Elfling in tow was very low on the list. Low on the list, but still something he could handle. He wasn't sure he could handle Curufinwё carrying an unconscious Makalaurё through the house to the Halls of Healing, but here they were.

"Where did he come from?" he asked, not sure whether he was referring to the Elfling or his second son. Tyelkormo had run to get the rest of their brothers as soon as they had arrived and Fёanáro had been left to follow Curufinwё and Telperinquar as they carried their respective charges through corridors and up flights of stairs.

Curufinwё only pursed his lips at the question, so he turned to his indya. Tyelpe, a bit breathless, adjusted the Elfling on his hip. The child had worn himself out with panic during the walk back to the house, and now he lay half asleep against Telperinquar's shoulder, listening intently to the conversation around him even though he'd shown no evidence of speaking Quenya.

"We don't know, Indatar. We heard a noise, then Uncle Tyelkormo turned a corner and called us over and Uncle Makalaurё was just standing there. And then the Elfing walked out from behind a tree and grabbed his hand and he dropped like a rock," he recounted.

"Does this mysterious little one have a name?"

Tyelpe tried to shrug, then winced as the smaller child's weight shifted with the motion.

"You are still an Elfling yourself, and not much bigger than he is," Fёanáro observed. "I could take him for you." He reached over to brush a strand of brown hair out of the sleepy Elfling's face.

"And you are hardly bigger than I," Tyelpe shot back good naturedly, grinning when Fëanáro scrunched up his nose in mock offense.

The Elfling squirmed again and Tyelpe cast Fëanáro a look that was some cross between pleading and grateful. The ellon gathered the child into his arms. The Elfing grabbed at Telperinquar's shirt in a moment of worry, glancing forward to where Curufinwё carried Makalaurё, but Telperinquar made soothing noises and after a moment the Elfling settled against Fёanáro's chest.

Tyelpe was silent as they continued to walk and Fёanáro withdrew into his thoughts. The Elfling nodding off in his arms was certainly a mystery: nameless, to his knowledge apparently mute, and wandering about the wood, injured, with the son Fёanáro hadn't seen in twelve years. His mind drifted to Makalaurё then, and the last time he had seen his second son.

It had been twelve years ago. Makalaurё had gone into the forest for quiet while he composed his newest set of songs. Fёanáro and Nerdanel had seen him off with smiles that had faded as the day progressed. Makalaurё hadn't returned that night, or any night since.

Nerdanel had left three years later. She had gone to visit her father in his forges and two months later Fёanáro had received a letter stating that she would not be returning. Her children were grown, one of them with a wife and child of his own, and she was grieving the loss of their Makalaurё. He understood, he truly did, but it still hurt.

And now their Makalaurё had returned. He was scarred and unconscious and barely dressed and he had brought a strange new child with him, but he had come home. Fёanáro would make sure he was well before sending word to anyone, especially Nerdanel. He would not call his wife home only for her to suffer once again the loss of her child.

Tyelpe ran ahead of them and threw open the doors to the Halls of Healing, startling the healers therein. Curufinwё entered a moment later, Fёanáro close on his heels. The healers were straight to business, arranging Makalaurё on a bed and examining him. The Elfling squirmed out of Fёanáro's hold and darted to Makalaurё's side, climbing into the bed and holding the ellon's left hand—the bandaged one—to his chest.

One of the healers tried to negotiate with him to be allowed to examine the hand, but the Elfling shook his head firmly. Upon the elleth's repeated attempts, Fёanáro realized that the child was not, in fact, mute, but foreign. He made himself understood rather well despite the language barrier, and the healer was forced to accept that she was not going to see Makalaurё's hand any time soon. Giving up on that course of action, the elleth examined the Elfling instead. He was wary, but didn't fight her, which she was glad of.

There was a cut on his arm, short but quite deep, and it would need two or three stitches. She went to fetch a needle and thread, searching also for a proper sleeping robe that would fit the Elfling. It was not her business to pry into her Lord's family, but the torn, dirtied, too-large robes the boy wore now were hardly serviceable, let alone appropriate. She found what she was looking for and returned to the bed.

The Elfling flinched when she wiped at the area around the cut with a wet cloth, but remained within her reach. She poured an anesthetic over the area and waited several minutes for it to take effect. She held up the needle, letting the Elfling watch her thread it before she started. He nodded and clenched his eyes shut while she worked. She tapped him on the shoulder when he finished and he looked at clean white bandage curiously. She smiled at him and gave him the folded sleeping robe, then moved away to report to Lord Fёanáro.

He shot up from the chair he had taken when he noticed her approach. "There is news?" he asked expectantly.

She nodded. "Lord Makalaurё is well enough; I believe the only thing for him is time. He should wake tonight or early tomorrow morning."

Fёanáro frowned. "The- the hand? The left one, it-"

The healer hesitated. "The Elfling would not allow me to see it, my lord. However, if I were to guess by his overall condition, it is likely not terribly bad."

Fёanáro nodded. "And what of the Elfling?"

"There are three small stitches in his arm but nothing else, my lord."

Fёanáro dropped into his chair, sagging with relief. "Thank you, Healer Aurhên."

She bowed and returned to her work station.

And that was when the door opened to admit the five sons of Fёanáro who were not already in the room.


	5. Chapter Four

His sons entered in a panic, Nelyafinwё in the front with Tyelkormo running behind him trying to explain the situation and the other three not far behind.

Nelyafinwё made a beeline for where his father was sitting. "Tyelko said we needed to come to the Halls of Healing," he said, looking down at Fёanáro, eyes wide.

Fёanáro stood, grabbing his eldest son by the arms and shaking him lightly. He knew how Nelyafinwё could get. "Be calm, ionya . Much has happened, but all is well."

Nelyafinwё let out a breath and nodded. He looked around the room for the first time and caught sight of Curufinwё and Telperinquar conversing quietly a few feet away, both whole and healthy. He looked relieved for a moment, then realization passed over his face and looked back at Fёanáro in concern.

"Who is hurt?" he asked, glancing between his brother and nephew and his father.

Tyelkormo looked up from where he was bent double trying to catch his breath from the run. "I tried to explain, Atto, but he ran off before I could," he said.

"It is alright, pitya min. I will explain." Then he turned to Nelyafinwё with a slight smile. "Sit, ionya. We don't need someone else fainting from shock."

Nelyafinwё's frown deepened, but he did as he was told. Morifinwё and the Ambarussa settled on the floor around the chair their older brother occupied and looked up at Fёanáro expectantly.

Fёanáro floundered for a moment, not quite sure how to start. "Your brother- There-" he cut himself off with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He looked to the bed occupied by Makalaurё and the strange foreign Elfling. "Makalaurё has returned," he finally said, preparing himself for the inevitable barrage of questions.

"Where is he?"

"When!"

"How!"

"Is he alright?"

"What happened?!"

Fёanáro held up his hands for silence. "Tyelkormo came across him near the river a few hours ago. He is asleep right now, but he is well. Ah!" He flung out an arm to stop his sons from going to their brother. "I have not finished," he said, meeting each of their eyes sternly. They sat, but he could feel their impatience. "When he- When Tyelkormo found him, there was someone with him. An Elfling."

The reaction to that was unanimous. "What?!"

Fёanáro nodded. "The Elfling is injured and frightened and does not speak Quenya well, if he speaks it at all. He is in the bed with Makalaurё. If he is awake, try not to upset him." He looked at them, waiting for an acknowledgement of his words. There was a collective nod. " Now you may go to your brother."

He, Curufinwё, and Telperinquar hung back while the rest of his sons crowded around Makalaurё's bed.

* * *

The first thing Maglor did upon waking was catalogue his surroundings to the best of his ability without opening his eyes. He didn't remember what exactly had happened, but he had learned long ago that waking from unconsciousness with no information was never a good situation to be in.

He was in a bed with someone small curled up next to him, breath even in sleep. Pain rang through his left side, but it was dull and easily ignored. A light breeze filled the air with the scent of flowers, but not strongly enough to mask the sharp smell of medicine undercut by that of years of blood. It was likely that he was in an infirmary, then. And with the sleeping child to his left, his mind went straight to Himring. He turned his head to the side and opened his eyes, fully expecting to see Maedhros and whichever twin was not in his bed sitting at his bedside, as they always were when he woke from a major injury.

Instead, his eyes met those of Celegorm and the Ambarussa, the subject of their eager scrutiny. Memory returned abruptly and he shot upright. His legs were over the side of the bed before he was hit by the dizziness that accompanies a sudden return to consciousness. A dozen hands grabbed at him and he closed his eyes tightly as he waited for the spinning to stop. When he opened them again, eight concerned faces filled his vision. His brothers and father and nephew.

They spoke to him all at once in Quenya and he scrunched his brow in confusion while he tried to translate. Mae- Nelyafinwё saw his expression and called for silence.

"Narildё mai, toron?"

Are you well? He could answer that easily enough. It took only a moment to string together a proper response. His Quenya was rusty, but not entirely unused. " Teln na ," he replied. I will be.

There were several smiles in response and he had only the barest seconds of warning before the twins sprung forward and trapped him in a hug, speaking too quickly for him to catch all of the words. That seemed to break some unseen barrier, because then his family were climbing onto his bed behind him and kneeling on the floor in front of him and leaning in awkwardly from his either side, all trying to get into the embrace and at least half in tears. He clung to them just as desperately, still not entirely convinced that this was real, that he wouldn't wake up alone at any moment.

The sleeping Elfling shifted suddenly and Maglor sucked in a breath over his teeth. He had forgotten for a moment, in all of the emotion, that Elrond was here with him. He moved, loathe to let go of his brothers but knowing that he had to be there for Elrond when the boy woke. He poked at Tyelkormo and Morifinwё—Valar, it was strange to call them by their Quenya names again—until they moved off of the bed. Then he shook Elrond lightly, acutely aware that he was being watched by everyone in the room.

* * *

Elrond woke easily, as he always had, and took in his surroundings quickly, noting all of the curious, unfamiliar faces. But… Ada didn't look worried. He sat uncomfortably for a moment, letting the—he quickly counted them off—eight ellyn oggle him. Something about them felt disconcertingly familiar, though he wasn't sure yet if it was in a good way or a bad way.

He quickly became bored at being stared at as though he were some new type of bug, and besides that he had questions. Most pressingly, where was he? When he turned to his Ada to ask, the ellyn around them started up a conversation in Quenya. He recognised the language easily enough and even understood a portion of the words. Living in Himring, it was hard not to pick up at least a little Quenya, but his naneth had told him a long time ago that it was "not appropriate for someone of his station to speak the language of the kinslayers."

Resolved to ignore the ellyn, he looked at his Ada, wondering which of his questions to ask first.

* * *

"Where are Elros and Maedhros?"

Maglor had expected questions. From his father, his brothers, Elrond. But he hadn't expected that to be the first. He didn't have an answer. Elros wasn't even born yet. Elrond wasn't supposed to be. Neither were Tuor or Beren or Lúthien and Idril was just a baby if she was even born either, let alone Eärendil and Elwing.

His brothers' attention was back on him. He sighed heavily and answered in Quenya. He knew Elrond knew enough of the language for this, and he may as well get him used to it. He had no idea how long they would be here, if they would ever go back at all. He made his answer as truthful as he could.

"I don't know, ionya. Somewhere far away."

Elrond looked thoughtful. He asked his next question in hesitant Quenya. "Yá telmё enatú?" When will we see them again?

The grammar was poor and the accent worse, but it was certainly understandable. But that wasn't what Maglor was worried about. When, Elrond had asked. He didn't want to break the boy's heart, but he couldn't find it within himself to lie.

"I don't think we will, pitya min.

He watched as Elrond translated the sentence, then processed it, and he was waiting with open arms when he broke. He held the Elfling tightly, whispering comfort in both Sindarin and Quenya. He didn't try to hold back his own tears and barely noticed when the room went utterly, respectfully silent.


	6. Chapter Five

"What ails you, seldёnya ?"

Nerdanel startled. She had been so caught up in the sudden, strange wash of feeling that she hadn't heard her father enter the workshop. He wove between the half-finished sculptures and the board that she'd pinned her sketches to. When he reached her, he bent down to pick up her dropped chisel and hammer, looking at them analytically. He placed them on the table and sat down on the bench beside his daughter, waiting for her to speak.

"Something feels wrong , Atto," Nerdanel said, leaning on Mahtan's shoulder.

He looked at the marble effigy she was working on and wrapped an arm around her. "Is it about your project?"

Nerdanel scrunched up her nose. "Of course not," she laughed. Then she sobered. "I don't know what it is. I was working and I had this… feeling. Like something is happening and I should be involved. What should I do, Atto?"

Mahtan hummed softly in consideration. "Well," he started, "I think that if I was meant to interfere in whatever it is that's happening to you, then I would have felt it, too. You must do this on your own, but I am always here for you, seldёnya. "

He spoke as though he knew something she didn't, and Nerdanel felt more at ease knowing that her father was willing to help her. She smiled at him. "Thank you, Atto."

He stood, sketching her an exaggerated bow. "You are quite welcome, my dear. Now, my original reason for coming here was to invite you to see the latest project of Aulё's smiths. It is quite spectacular, if you are interested." Mahtan knew that his daughter didn't often enjoy visiting the forge, for it reminded her of her husband and sons—one of whom had been dead so many awful years—but he was rather proud of this latest accomplishment.

It seemed his daughter was in a favorable mood; her smile widened and she stood gracefully, dusting her chalky hands on her leggings. "But of course. If it is as wonderful as you say, it must be a sight to behold indeed."

They walked to the forge in silence, Nerdanel too lost in thought to speak. One of Aulё's Maiar greeted them when they arrived, leading them through to the Vala's workstation with a proud grin. Several others, both Eldar and Maiar, were already gathered around, admiring a large, smooth yellow-green stone in a finely filligreed silver setting. Aulё himself was sitting two tables down, bent over what Nerdanel assumed was a sketch for his next project. She noted that the pendant in front of her glowed softly, but that was hardly remarkable when looking at the work of Aulё. Nerdanel raised a brow, turning to her father with a wry smile.

"A pendant? Atto, you've given me one nearly the same for my last begetting day. Surely it must do something fantastical, then, to be worth such note as to interrupt my work."

It wasn't phrased as a question, but it was most certainly an attempt to gain information. Information which the smiths were apparently all too happy to give. They all began to speak at once, her father included, too excitable and overlapped for her to understand a word. Aulё glanced up and the sudden cacophony and smiled fondly when he caught sight of Nerdanel at the middle of it all, arms crossed with a amused and challenging expression on her fair face.

* * *

The Vala was reminded by a sudden mental prod from his wife that he was meant to speak to Lady Nerdanel about certain events. He easily parted the crowd around her and her father.

"Now, what is it that has caused all of this noise?" he asked cheerfully.

Lady Nerdanel curtsied to him, but her exasperated smile never left. "This pendant seems rather plain, my lord. I simply asked what makes it so exceptional."

Now the challenging look was turned on the Vala himself. He grinned. He was rather proud of the necklace. He and his smiths had been commissioned by Vairё, Nienna, and Estё to craft it. They had told him in no uncertain terms that it was to go to the mother of Kanafinwё Makalaurё, and though neither Valiё would say why, he could certainly guess.

"Well, Lady, I shall start with the stone. Gaspeite tends to be quite… magical. It is said to give the wearer visions of the future, and even make one's wishes for the future come true, though I cannot prove that claim. It also has healing properties, of wounds both physical and emotional."

Lady Nerdanel's expression had turned speculative. Her eyes twinkled similarly to how her husband's did before doing something he knew the Valar would not like. Aulё resolved to keep an eye on her—not that he hadn't been since the Valar's recent… mistake. He resumed his explanation

"Silver, as your respected father has likely told you, has similar properties. It can also enhance the powers of the stone and create a proper link between stone and wearer. This necklace was designed with a purpose, Lady, though what purpose I may not say."

Lady Nerdanel nodded, mind somewhere distant but still focused on the pendant. She seemed unlikely to come back to the present any time soon, and Aulё gave a prompting nod to her father. Mahtan closed the necklace in its box, placing it in his daughter's hands.

Lady Nerdanel's eyes went wide. "For me?" she breathed almost reverently.

Aulё inclined his head. "I would speak with you outside, Lady. You are wise far beyond your years, certainly you have noticed that the world feels amiss these past two days?"

She nodded, hardly breathing.

"Walk with me, then, and I will explain it to you as best I can." The Vala offered her his arm with a sound like grinding stone. Lady Nerdanel shifted her box to one hand and took it, scarcely flinching at the heat of the fire that ran in his blood.

His Maiar moved aside to make a path and Mahtan walked with them as far as the door, where he brushed a kiss over his daughter's brow and said, "I am here should you have need of me, seldёnya. "

Aulё continued to lead Lady Nerdanel for several minutes, offering her a seat on a garden bench when he was certain that they were far enough from the forge as not to be overheard by his Maiar or the smiths.

They sat in silence for several minutes before either of them spoke, Lady Nerdanel deferring to the Vala and Aulë trying to figure out where to begin.

"Your son—" he broke off, realizing that it was a poor start.

"I have many sons," Lady Nerdanel shot back in cold politeness, her good mood thoroughly soured by the reminder of the child she had lost. But Aulë had expected such a reaction; it was why he had cut himself off two words into his explanation.

He schooled his expression to one of sympathy. Lady Nerdanel scoffed lightly and turned away.

"Lady," he said firmly, turning her to face him, "there is much you need to know, and it will be easier for us both if you cooperate."

She sighed and her shoulders slumped.. "Very well. I will listen."

"Would you like to put on your necklace?"

Lady Nerdanel frowned at the sudden change of subject, but opened the box obediently.

"I fear you will not believe me without the magic," he explained. She nodded, appearing satisfied with that.

When the necklace was on, Lady Nerdanel looked at him expectantly. He huffed out a sigh. "You're son," he started, then trailed off for a moment. "Makalaurë has returned to your family's estate."

The enchantment of the necklace overcame her, and she knew Aulë's words to be true.

* * *

"That's the last of it," Mahtan said, passing a bag to his daughter and rechecking the cinches on her saddle.

"I will be alright," she said, fond exasperation coloring her tone. "I am only travelling to King Finwë's lands. It is far, but the road is not dangerous. You know this, Atto."

Mahtan smiled, walking with her to the gates of the estate. "I do, seldёnya, but you are my youngest, and you know well how parents hold their youngest children so dear."

Nerdanel bent down to tighten the laces on her boots, then swung herself into the saddle. "I must be off. You will come to visit this summer?"

"Of course . May your journey take you safely home, hínanya."

Mahtan watched his daughter ride out, heart lighter than it had been in nearly a decade, and smiled.


End file.
